


Close Encounters

by pomegrenadier



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Supernatural, Superwho - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Diners, Gen, Martha Jones cameo, Noodle Incidents, no discernable plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel makes a new friend, and Donna falls in with a couple of hunters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I wrote, initially because I wanted to practice setting descriptions (of all things) and then because the Doctor appeared out of nowhere. As he is wont to do. :) There is truly no point or plot to this, but it's ~2900 words of bickering and cross-genre culture clash, so hopefully it's still fun. Set sometime in Season 5 of SPN and Series 4 of Doctor Who, rated for Dean's language. Enjoy.

Castiel stood on a suburban street in Indiana, another pause in his endless, fruitless search for God. The air was humid and dark, like the inside of a cavernous mouth; the streetlight on the corner buzzed, low and whining. Lines of houses marched down either side of the road, shutters and doors splashing them with dull color—slate blue, olive green, faded burgundy. Family cars sat in cracked concrete driveways, glinting with droplets from the fitful, spitting rain.  
  
A breeze slunk through the leaves of the Japanese maple tree in the front yard of the nearest house. It was sticky-warm that night, but the wind was chilly, clammy. When it reached Castiel he felt himself shiver involuntarily. It crawled past layers of cloth, brushed against his vessel's flesh, wormed through his wings.  
  
There were no stars. Low clouds, smoggy and heavy, grumbled with pangs of lightning and thunder.  
  
Castiel tipped his head back and closed his eyes. It was a quiet night, here. Ordinary. He had been to Jerusalem, to Mecca, to Istanbul and Medina and Rome. God was in none of these places, but His angels were. And Castiel could not afford to draw his siblings' attention, not now. So he retreated to America, closer to the Winchesters, within easy reach. Hoping, without much hope, that God might be found in this, the most insignificant, banal, mundane of locations on the continent.  
  
God was not here.  
  
But something else was.

A breath of _otherness_. The turn of the Earth, her mad spiraling sprint through the cosmos. The texture of starlight and the roaring echo of Creation's birth cry.  
  
A deep blue box appeared between a No Parking sign and a yellow fire hydrant. It shone from within with a pale gold light.  
  
A door in the side squeaked open, and a creature poked its head out. "Donna?" it shouted, voice tight and worried. "Donna!"  
  
Castiel tilted his head, curious despite himself—he had never encountered anything like this creature before. He walked towards the box and stopped where the light spilling out met the dark of the suburban night. "Who is Donna?" he asked.  
  
The being in the box looked at him with undisguised fascination. It had the form of a man, at least outwardly; he wore clothing similar to Jimmy Novak's, although the shoes were light-colored and much grubbier. His eyes were sharp and dark. The soul behind them was a strange, shining, blackened thing, full of desperate benevolence and depthless grief and consuming rage, spanning far too many years to be human. "What?" the creature said.  
  
"You are looking for someone," said Castiel. "This Donna. Who is she?"  
  
"My, er, my traveling companion—listen, I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?"  
  
"I am Castiel."  
  
A nod, as if this were perfectly reasonable. "I'm the Doctor, and Donna has wandered off. Again. Well—it's more a matter of me misplacing her—complete accident, you understand, had no idea that biscuit was booby-trapped, but we were separated and I've been trying to track her biosignature . . ."  
  
"There is no one else here." Nobody who should not be here, at least.  
  
The Doctor deflated, then rallied. "Must be a reason," he muttered. "There _must_ be. 'S not the scanners, so—Why would she take me here unless . . . Castiel! Just what are you doing here?" The Doctor grinned. "You're rather calm for a man who's just seen a great big blue box appear out of nowhere."  
  
"I have seen far stranger."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"I am an angel of the Lord."  
  
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "An angel."  
  
"Yes."  
  
The Doctor rocked back on his heels, contemplative. "Well. That's . . . blimey, I've seen a lot, but . . . an angel?" He stepped forward, fully out of the box, and pulled a small silver cylinder from his coat pocket. A blue light ignited on the end, and a whirring sound coincided with a dull roll of thunder. "What—are you possessing that poor man?" It was almost a squawk, indignant and appalled, and it reminded Castiel of Dean.  
  
"He consented," he said. "And his spirit has departed."  
  
The Doctor's expression did not clear. "Has it," he said tonelessly.  
  
Castiel got the impression that this information had not helped endear him to this being. Mere months ago, he would not have been concerned. But now, a strange and unpleasant emotion was curling through him, sour and wriggling. He thought it must be guilt. He did not like it.  
  
"I . . . regret what happened to him," Castiel said after a long moment. He found himself wishing to justify himself, or at least explain. It felt very . . . human. "It was a mistake. I did not realize it at the time."  
  
The Doctor frowned more deeply. "I've run into things calling themselves angels before. Rather unfriendly. Well, I say _unfriendly_ , I mean homicidal and psychotic."  
  
Castiel processed this, wondering what kind of angel might warrant such terms. Then he imagined Dean's reaction, Dean's voice, snaking through his consciousness, so irreverent, so _angry_ , and Castiel remembered the tendrils of terrifying agreement. "A friend once informed me that angels are dicks."  
  
The Doctor's frown vanished as his eyebrows shot up. He pocketed the glowing blue device, pursing his lips. A smile tugged at the corners. "Don't think you're quite that bad," he said. "At least, I certainly hope you aren't."  
  
Castiel considered him. "What are you, then?"  
  
He scratched at the back of his neck. "Oh—just a traveler."  
  
"You are not one of my Father's creations."  
  
"What? Your—oh, of course, angel, but how could . . ." He trailed off, then continued thoughtfully, "I suppose I wouldn't be."  
  
Castiel examined him, keeping his thoughts to himself.  
  
"Listen, much as I'd love to debate theology with a real proper angel, my friend's still lost and she'll be a bit put out if I don't find her soon, so . . ."  
  
"Good luck," Castiel said, after a long pause, because he was fairly sure that was an appropriate response. The Doctor smiled and bobbed his head, a grim light settling in his eyes as the door swung shut and the air shivered and shrieked around the box's exit.  
  
The heavens opened, and rain hammered against Castiel's shoulders and the crown of his head.

* * *

  
Donna opened her eyes and yelped, and the shadow looming over her sprang back. "Whoa, easy, you're okay," it said.  
  
"It's bloody well not okay," she grumbled, sitting up. Her spine protested. Every single joint and tendon protested, actually—she'd been sprawled awkwardly on the ground, and there wasn't anything to soften the stones and twigs and things digging into her. She gritted her teeth and squinted up at her possibly-rescuer. Male, thirtyish, pretty face, leather jacket, really _amazing_ green eyes.  
  
"Hel-lo," Donna said. "I'm on Earth, right? You're human and all?"  
  
The man stared at her. "Uh . . . yeah?"  
  
"Brilliant." Well, at least she was on the proper planet. Worse came to worst, she could call Gramps, or maybe Martha—assuming she was in the right time, at least.  
  
"Dean, they're coming back," a second voice interrupted, before she could ask the date. American accents, Donna noticed—and, oh, wonderful, this new bloke had a shotgun. He wore plaid flannel and his hair was too long. Donna would grant, however, that it was not nearly as bad as the Doctor's electrocuted-porcupine hair.  
  
"Crap," said American Number One, presumably named Dean. "Okay, there's some seriously bad shit on its way and you've gotta come with us. All right?"  
  
"What kind of—"  
  
"Dean, now!"  
  
Dean gave an apologetic look and pulled her upright with a grunt, hauling her towards a large shiny black car. Donna struggled on principle. Despite her efforts, he manhandled her into the backseat and slammed the door. "Stay down!" he ordered.  
  
Donna peered through the window as Dean circled 'round the back. He took a gallon jug of something clear and sloshy out of the trunk, and was sloshing it in a purposeful manner in the direction of a dozen very unfriendly-looking people who were advancing on them. Floppy Hair had raised the shotgun.  
  
To a man, or a woman, the people had black eyes, and very cruel, toothy smiles. Donna surmised that they were victims of alien mind-control or something similar, and heaved a sigh. Never a moment's rest . . .  
  
"All right, you bastards," Dean growled. "Bring it."  
  
A nasty skirmish erupted. The shotgun didn't seem to harm the bastards in question, not permanently anyway, and the contents of the gallon jug made them steam and smoke and cry out but caused no visible damage. Bit like mosquito repellent. The nasty, jagged little knife that Floppy Hair pulled from somewhere when he ran out of ammunition, on the other hand, was quite clearly deadly.  
  
Donna was not terribly pleased with being stuck in the back seat of a car while the Yanks fended off homicidal psychic parasites or whatever they were. So she slipped out, opened the trunk, and raised an eyebrow at the arsenal inside. She rummaged around until she found a two-liter bottle of more of the clear liquid, which looked and smelled like nothing so much as ordinary water.  
  
She sloshed it at a mind-controlled person-thing as it attempted to strangle Floppy Hair, who'd lost the knife in the scuffle. It screeched, let go, and fell back.  
  
Floppy Hair gabbled out something that sounded like Latin, and probably was, and with half their number either dead or fled, the remaining attackers scurried away.  
  
" _Omnis_ —well, fine, don't stick around for the exorcism," Floppy Hair said irritably. He huffed. Then he glanced over at Donna and smiled, dimpling. "Uh, thanks for that, by the way."  
  
Donna hefted the bottle. "You're welcome. Mind telling me what the bloody _hell_ just happened?"  
  
"Those," Dean said, "were demons."  
  
". . . Demons."  
  
"Yeah. Told you it'd sound nuts. Now let's go." He capped the jug of whatever it was, took hers from her unresisting hands, and put them in the trunk. He slid into the annoyingly inverted driver's seat while Floppy Hair took the passenger side, and Donna was left to clamber into the back of the car with a healthily skeptical frown.  
  
She cleared her throat as they pulled onto a highway some minutes later. "Are you sure it's actually demons, and not some kind of alien thing?" she prodded.  
  
"Aliens?" Dean snorted.  
  
"Yes, aliens. This is America, right? You know, Roswell, UFOs, the Men In Black? Although—that might just be your version of Torchwood," she said.  
  
"Lady—"  
  
"Donna," she said tersely.  
  
"Okay, Donna. That's X-files stuff. Total bull. Demons aren't."  
  
"Dean—" Floppy Hair started.  
  
"No, Sam, the one time we thought it might have possibly been aliens, it was the Trickster, remember?"  
  
Donna scowled. "Look, sunshine, I know aliens when I see 'em!"  
  
"Right. Sure." And Dean threw Sam a sideways look that Donna could read from the back seat, which clearly meant _She's a nutter._  
  
Hmph.  


* * *

  
The second time Castiel encountered the Doctor was an hour later in North Carolina, on the seaward side of the Outer Banks, just outside of Duck. Pearly clouds obscured the dawn sky, stained the eastern horizon purple and orange. A crab, pale and translucent-shelled, scuttled away as Castiel stepped towards the ocean, frothy green-brown waves rushing to meet him.  
  
The Doctor's box reappeared as the light shifted to pink and lavender and gold, and Castiel waited patiently for the creak of its door. The Doctor emerged, face pinched and unhappy, then melting to surprise and recognition when he spotted Castiel. "But you—we were— _what_? Have we met yet, or are we doing this out of order?"  
  
"We've met," said Castiel, a bit uncertainly.  
  
"Oh, that's just brilliant—you can teleport! That's how you get around, is it? Just blink and you're there? Ha—blink . . ." He trailed off, looking uneasy, before he snapped back to something approaching delight. "Amazing, really—how I managed to not meet any of you in nine hundred years of poking about, I'll never know . . ."  
  
"We have not walked among humans for nearly two thousand years."  
  
"Really? Hmm. Make that nine hundred nonlinear years."  
  
"Have you located your friend?"  
  
The Doctor's eyes darkened. "No. The TARDIS can't find her—she should be able to, there's nothing wrong with the navigational systems, but she keeps going sideways at the last minute and we end up _anywhere_. Thought I'd fixed the scanner lock last week . . ."  
  
"Do you want assistance? I may be able to locate her." Castiel wasn't quite sure why he offered, but his search for God was going nowhere, and lacking any further leads he might as well help where he could.  
  
"Oh, yes, thank you!"  


* * *

  
Donna, having explained that her ride was missing, and having been the subject of a fiercely whispered discussion between Sam and Dean, was ensconced in a red vinyl booth, in a diner which served magnificently greasy food. Perfect pick-me-up after a close encounter with things that might have been aliens and might have been demons. She had, between receiving a menu and ordering a soda, discovered that Sam and Dean were brothers, bickered a lot, and were her kind of bonkers, even if their particular strain of it ran towards the supposedly supernatural.  
  
Sam took out his laptop as soon as they sat down, and searched for other things to save people from. Donna heartily approved, as long as she managed to contact the Doctor soon.  
  
She waited until the three of them had tucked into their food. "Can I use your cell phone?" she asked Dean, who was chewing on a bacon cheeseburger. He nodded and tossed it across the table. The phone, not the cheeseburger. The cheeseburger made her arteries shrivel up and cry, and her mouth water in unholy desire, at the mere thought of it.  
  
She surreptitiously checked the date before dialing. Oh, good, it was after she met Martha; she'd have help there if the Doctor was completely unreachable.  
  
"The number you dialed is not in service at this time. Please check the number and try again," a robotic female voice informed her, cheerily.  
  
Donna growled under her breath and tried Martha's number. Typical Time Lord.  
  
"Dr. Martha Jones speaking," the younger woman's voice came, clipped and professional, on the fourth ring.  
  
"Martha! It's Donna Noble."  
  
"Donna—good to hear from you!"  
  
"You, too. Er. Have you heard from the Doctor?"  
  
". . . What's he gone and done now?"  
  
"Well, there was a biscuit on Thrimboon, and a thing that looked like an octopus—at least, that's what he was on about before we got separated. By the biscuit. It was complicated."  
  
Martha made a noise somewhere between a giggle and a fondly exasperated sigh. "Can't say I'm surprised. You're on Earth, though?"  
  
"Yeah. America, can you believe it? I'm fine, just a bit lacking in mad aliens. Would you mind letting me know if he shows up?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"You're a star, Martha," Donna said, with feeling. "When I find that skinny idiot and get back home, let's have tea, yeah?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Cheers."  
  
She snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Dean, feeling rather more sure of herself. "Thanks."  
  
He was staring at her, the burger suspended halfway to his mouth. Beside him, Sam looked as if he were working up to saying something he worried might provoke her.  
  
". . . Biscuit?" Dean said eventually.  
  
"Cookie, to you."  
  
"No, I know, but— _biscuit_?"  
  
"'Demons,'" Donna shot back, with air quotes.  
  
Dean sat back. Sam opened his mouth and closed it again.  
  
Then two men with unruly hair and long brown coats appeared just outside the window.  


* * *

  
"That was fantastic!" the Doctor said, peering around eagerly. Teleporting not-weeping angels! Oh, he'd get around to the whole possession bit once he'd found Donna, but for now—yes, fantastic was the word for it.  
  
One moment, they were on the beach, and a crab was advancing on the Doctor's shoe. The next—with a flutter of invisible wings— _wings!_ — they were standing on the sidewalk near a small restaurant, in the very wee hours of the morning. Somewhere westward of where they'd been, then. Castiel looked towards the window of the restaurant, and the Doctor followed his gaze and grinned. Donna was sitting in a booth across from a pair of young men who clearly recognized Castiel. All to the good, then.  
  
The Doctor bounced into the restaurant. A little bell over the door tinkled. "There you are!"  
  
Donna rose, faced him, and folded her arms with a very dangerous look. His elation faded as she said, in ominous tones, "Just what were you saying about that octopus?"  
  
"Er. Octopodrian."  
  
"Octo-thing!"  
  
"Donna, it wasn't his fault—"  
  
"Bollocks!"  
  
"No, really, he didn't know about the biscuit, either—"  
  
"Will someone please explain what the hell is going on here?" one of the two men exploded.  
  
Castiel spoke up. "This is the Doctor. He's an alien. I was helping him to look for his friend."  
  
"Doesn't look like E.T.," the man grumbled.  
  
The other man coughed delicately. "Um. Guys. Maybe not here." They were drawing some odd looks from the serving staff of the restaurant, comprised of a drooping waitress and a sour-looking gentleman stooped over the cash register up front.  
  
"Sam, you can't be taking this shit seriously—"  
  
"Oi, _you're_ the one sayin' demons are real!" Donna said.  
  
"Well, Castiel here is an angel," said the Doctor, in what he hoped were reasonable tones.  
  
"Friggin' crazy," the man at the register grumbled.


End file.
